


Special Assignment

by anaranjada



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 10:55:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5161151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anaranjada/pseuds/anaranjada
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate ending to season 1: Holt assigns Diaz to go undercover with Peralta to take down New York's best crime family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Special Assignment

“Alright, everyone. You’re to return to your desks—your _own_ desks—and carry on as you were. In a few minutes, Peralta will emerge, behaving…very badly. This is for the benefit of the others; you’re to behave as though you’re not expecting it. I trust you can all manage that? Boyle?”  
“Aye aye, captain. Aye aye.”  


“…Good. Off you go, then. Not you, Diaz; I’d like you to be here for this conversation.”  


“Why?” She sounds pissed, but no more than usual, and Jake can tell from the slight upward tilt of her frown that she’s as curious as he is.  


“Are you questioning a direct order, Detective?”  


“Yes. Why?”  


“I’ll explain when we’re alone. Now. Sit down. Both of you.”  


The others are slow to clear out; Holt has to physically move Gina. That done, he returns to his place behind his desk, settles into his chair, and lets out the comfortable sigh of the only one in a goddamn room who knows what’s going on.  


Jake sits; Diaz doesn’t. “Why?” she says again, once Holt is seated.  


He sighs. “This _will_ be a chore, won’t it? Very well. Diaz, I've consulted with the agents in charge, and we’d like for you to accompany Detective Peralta on his undercover assignment.”  


The detectives’ “What?!”s fly out in unison. Holt expects Peralta’s to be followed by some sort of jinx joke, and when none is forthcoming, he sees that the man looks…legitimately shocked. _Troublingly_ shocked.  


Diaz, on the other hand, regains her composure almost immediately. “Seriously, why?”  


“Well, you’re two of my best detectives—“  


“Damn right we are,” says Jake. Holt looks again, and it’s as though nothing has happened; Jake is himself, smirking mask securely in place. He goes in for a high-five; Diaz does not reciprocate.  


“AND AS SUCH, I believe you’ll both prove useful in this investigation.”  


Rosa nods at that, and looks down at her lap, as though considering.  


Peralta, of course, has something to say. “Captain, while I appreciate your well-deserved compliment, I gotta ask—do you seriously not trust me to do this alone? Seriously?”  


“Do you really need an answer to that question, Peralta?”  


“…No sir.”  


“Thank you. Now, Detective Diaz, this is obviously up to you. This will be a dangerous assignment, and as you can see, your working companionship might be—“  


“I’m in.”  


“Are you certain? You don’t want to…take some time, consider—“  


“Shut up. I’m in.”  


“Heeeeell yeah you are! Undercover spy buddies! Up top!” Jake is left hanging again, because of course he is. “Oh, and by the way…you owe me a soda. Not some diet crap, either; I’m a full-sugar man. Eh? Ehhh?”  


“Peralta, you are not, nor will you ever be, a spy. I need for you to take this assignment seriously. Can you do that?”  


“Yes, sir. Anything for my craft and my country.” Rosa snorts at that. Holt sighs.  


“So it’s settled, then? You both agree?”  


“Yeah.”  


“Absofuckinlutely.”  


_What in_ Hell _am I doing?_ “Good. Peralta, you’ll start tonight, at O’Malley’s. Smith and his buddies drink there most nights; you’re to get close to them, if possible, but please…refrain from…embellishing. You’ll be briefed on the details of your cover by the agents in charge in the morning. Diaz, you’ll join them for that meeting; I’ll send the information to your phones when I have it. And with that…I guess we’re done here. Peralta…do your thing, before I change my mind.”  


“This is the best day of my life.”  


“GO.”  


The racket from the bullpen is glorious, and by the time Peralta’s out of the building—they can still hear him oinking as the building’s front door slams shut—Holt and Diaz are both trying and failing to hide smiles.  


“Now,” Holt says, voice measured as always, as though nothing has happened, “it’s our turn to do some acting. Are you ready?”  


“What? Why?”  


“I thought it would be obvious: the Iunucci family will not associate with NYPD officers. If you choose to take part in this operation, you, too, will have to temporarily leave the force.”  


“You’re going to make me oink?”  


“Of course not. It’s got to be natural. ‘In-character,’ if you will. You…are not an oinker.”  


“Damn straight.”  


“You will, however, have to yell.”  


She smirks. “Gladly.”  


“At me.”  


Better. What am I mad about?”  


“Peralta.”  


“At him or for him?”  


Holt pauses, leans forward, and sets his features. “For him. Diaz, there are…a couple ways we can go about this, but the easiest one—the one that I and the FBI believe will gain you maximum believability in the field—is for you to fake an in-office affair.”  


“With who?”  


He affects a meaningful look, meets her eyes, and nods. A beat, and she knows.  


“Fuck no.”  


“Diaz—“  


“They aren’t gonna believe that. _Nobody_ is gonna believe that.”  


“Nobody _here_ has to. If my faith in my detectives isn’t entirely misplaced—“  


“It is.”  


“—none of them _will_. But the scene must occur, nonetheless, for the benefit of the building at large.”  


“Why’s it gotta be an affair? I’m…an angry person. Can’t I just, like, hit someone and get fired?”  


_You knew it would be difficult, Raymond. With these two, it couldn’t not be._ “Diaz, you and Detective Peralta will have to spend six months working closely together, gaining the trust of a small, close-knit group of very dangerous men. You will be responsible for each other’s safety twenty-four hours a day. That will work best with you two living together, and the best explanation for _that_ , to the public in general and to the Iunuccis in particular, is for you two to be…involved.”  


Diaz sighs. “Do I have a choice?”  


“If you want to go under with him? Not really.”  


“Fine.”  


“Fine? That’s it? You’ll do it?”  


“It’ll be my collar?”  


“Yours and Detective Peralta’s, yes.”  


“And I’ll get to come back and explain to all these dumb fuckers that it was fake?”  


“In so many words, yes. Absolutely.”  


“Then yeah. Fine. Career made.”  


“Thank you. As they say, ‘pleasure doing business with you.’”  


“Don’t quote clichés. You sound like SmarterChild.”  


“And you sound like—“  


“Say it and I’ll hit you.”  


Holt raises his hands, holds in a smile, and says “dismissed.”  


Before she can leave, however, Holt stops her.  


“Oh, and Detective Diaz?”  


“What.”  


“The scene begins now. ARE YOU _SERIOUSLY_ asking _ME_ —your _CAPTAIN_ , your _BOSS_ —to let a wild-card, vigilante maniac, remain on this police force…because you’re _SLEEPING WITH HIM?_ ”  


Diaz grins. “FUCK you. FUCK you, and FUCK this precinct. I’m out.”  


Grin gone, she slams the door behind her, meets the gaze of each gawping moron as she passes, and stops short in front of Boyle’s desk. She meets his eyes, sees that he…you know… _knows_ , and says goodbye in the best possible way to her friend: “Get the fuck out of my way.”  


When the bullpen door slams shut behind Diaz, Hitchcock starts to cry, Scully suffers third-degree coffee burns to his lap (and _swears_ he has not also wet himself), and Gina posts the first of a caps-locked thirty-seven-tweet series that will secure her the moderate Internet fame for which she has always yearned.  
A day well-ended in the nine-nine.  


***  


At 2:47 the next morning, while lying in bed next to his husband, Raymond Holt is awoken by a tinny rendition of “Shakira, Shakira,” as performed by one Jake Peralta. (Ever since the young detective discovered Holt’s technological ineptitude, he’s been making inane alterations to Holt’s phone regularly. Gina has been no help, and Holt has thus far refused to ask Kevin. He is, for all his protestations, a prideful man.)  


“What in God’s name is that?” Kevin mumbles into his pillow. Holt does not respond, opting instead to turn the phone off and hope to God that Kevin won’t remember it in the morning. When he checks the screen, though, Holt sees that he’s missed four calls from Peralta, all within the last twenty minutes. He rises carefully from his bed, rearranging the covers carefully, and goes to his study across the hall.  


He shuts the door behind him and dials Peralta’s number. It rings exactly twice, then Peralta’s voice is _loud and clear_ in his ear.  


“Hey Captain, how are things? How’s Kev? Tell Kev I said hi!”  


_“What is it?”_  


“Oh, you know, just checkin’ in. Got drunk. For work. Now ‘m home. Do’worry, I checked for bugs. The perimeter. Is. Clear. So I gotta question.”  


“…Tell me how to turn the volume down first. Please.”  


“On th’side, there’s some…buttons, right? On the…okay which side of your phone is your head on? Are you…hold on…the buttons…”  


“I found them. Thank you. You had a question?”  


“Yeah about Diaz…like, that’s cool, that’s totally your call, and I respect that--”  


“I’m glad to hear that.”  


“Me too. _Me too._ But…real talk… _why?_ ”  


“As I told you earlier, it seemed wise to assign the best available detectives to the case.”  


“But that’s me ‘n Amy. Like, Amy’s insane, and she’s so far up your ass that—“  


_“Peralta.”_  


“That you can probably taste her, but—“  


_“PERALTA.”_  


“Jokes, jokes. But she’s my partner, and she’s…eugh…it pains me to say it, but…she’s the second best detective. There. Done. So…why Diaz?”  


Holt sighs. “Peralta, are you—“  


“YOU SAID MY NAME THREE TIMES LIKE _BEETLEJUICE!_ Aren’t’ya worried I’m gonna appear in your room? Hahaha…”  


“Do I _really_ need to lay out for you why sending you and Detective Santiago undercover together is a bad idea?”  


“Dude, I get your concerns, I really, _really_ do…but I would not kill her. I have _ironclad_ self-control. Have I killed her _yet?_ No, I have—“  


“Peralta—Jake. I hear things. People talk. _Gina_ talks. I _know.”_  


“Know wha— _ohhhh._ Oh. Ooookay, captain, I can explain tha—“  


“Detective I would _much_ rather you didn’t.”  


“No for real, you don’t understa—“  


_“And I don’t want to._ Peralta, for all the problems I have with the concept of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” I really do feel that it’s the best policy in this situation. Diaz is a fine detective. You know she is. And you two will do a fine job working together. You were together in the Academy, weren’t you?  


“Yeah, but boss—“  


“Peralta, I’m going back to bed. The phone is going off, and tomorrow, when we meet, you are going to show me how to change my ringtone. Good night.”  


Holt hears a weak “Shakira, Shakira,” before switching the phone off. He sighs, sets the phone on the desk, and returns to his room. _That boy,_ he thinks, _is why I’m glad I’m not a father._  


***  


Slowly, Jake’s intoxicated mind registers the sound of a hang-up, and he sets his own phone down on his laundry-basket-cum-bedside-table. His mind is reeling, and not just from the…eight? Eight tequila shots.  


His mind turns, of course, to how he got himself into this shit. Weeks ago, in a different bar, with Terry. He can picture it…  


***  


Terry set down his drink, leaned forward, and looked at Jake with more sincerity in his eyes than Jake was entirely sure he himself had in his entire body. “What’s goin’ on with you?” he asked. “For the past two days, you’ve been tellin’ me how _amazing_ it was gonna be to solve this case. This does _not_ look amazing.”  


_Fuck,_ Jake thought. _Fuck Terry and his adequate detective skills and his serious face. Fuck my inability to maintain any semblance of facial control after one and a half beer._ “I dunno, man,” he replied, not knowing what the hell else to say. “I thought I’d be more psyched, too. Maybe I just need a cooler case.”  


“No,” said Terry, looking…somehow more soulful? _What the hell, man? Don’t play me like this. You know I can’t lie to a face like that._ “That is not gonna work. You set the precinct record: you weren’t happy. You solved an unsolvable case: you weren’t happy. No case is gonna make you happy. Something’s botherin’ you, and whatever it is, you gotta deal with it.”  


_Fuck._  


_What do I tell him? What do I tell him? What do I fucking tell him come on come on come on…_ Jake didn’t say anything for a moment, then, just flitted his eyes around the bar, looking for a safe place to look. Finally, his gaze falls on the bar, where Amy and what’s-his-name are talking. Well away from...you know. “Yeah,” he said, finally, “Well, maybe I can’t deal with it right now. Or, you know, whatever.”  


Terry looked over his shoulder, and, upon seeing…well…presumably more or less what Jake had seen, he turned back, looking no less sincere, but maybe just a little bit playful, too.  


“…Oh…That’s a tough one.”  


_Um._ “Yeah.”  


“But solving more cases isn’t gonna make you feel any better,” Terry said, raising his glass. “Havin’ a drink with a friend might, though.”  


Jake mirrored the gesture, smiling half-heartedly. “…Thank you,” he said, “but I don’t think another drink is gonna help.” A pause, then. A large, thought-allowing pause, during which an adequate fucking detective might continue…detecting. _Keep talking keep talking keep talking keep_  


“I think having a lot more drinks might help.”  


“There he is!” Terry cheered, tossing the full-sized drink back like the shot it looked like in his ginormous hand.  


_Mission…accomplished?_  


“Sooo,” Terry said upon swallowing, a devilish grin on his face. “Amy, huh?”  


_Um._  


This was what Jake had wanted, wasn’t it? An excuse—any excuse—to give Terry that wouldn’t get him into any really deep shit. And, you know, for Terry to be there for him—to drink and get stupid and sing with him—without knowing exactly what—exactly _who_ —they were drinking away. But… _what? This?_ It made Jake feel… _dirty,_ and that’s no small feat for someone whose bedroom floor has a literal grime film and who spent last weekend fist-to-mouthing Cheetos and searching “actual weirdest porn” on YouTube.  


Still, he had to say _something,_ didn’t he? And he certainly couldn’t come out with the truth.  


He sighed, slapped the table, and looked as close to Terry’s kind eyes as he could without wanting to burst out laughing. Or, you know, crying. Cry-laughing, perhaps. Craughing. “Ready to do some shots,” he said, and damn, was he.  


So they drank, and they sang, and Charles…started dancing for some reason? And hell yeah, everything was good! The ookiness of the whole thing lingered, though; how could it not? _Terry thinks I wanna bone my sister,_ Jake thought, over and over, right underneath ‘what a man what a man what a man.’ _Like, not my_ sister _sister, but like…Santiago’s not even a_ girl. _I mean, she’s a_ girl, _but not like…a_ girl _girl. She’s like…Fuck, I don’t know. I don’t know. Fuck. ___  


That was about the last thing Jake remembered before passing out. He supposed, later, that Terry must have carried him to his car, as that was where he woke up a few hours later, in the dark, alone. Or--  


“Hey there, buddy,” Charles crooned from the front seat. “You feelin’ okay?”  


“FUCK DON’T DO THAT. Charles what the fuck are you doing here?”  


“Sarge said to wait here with you ‘till we both sobered up. He said, and I quote, ‘I gotta get home; the girls’ll be in bed soon, and I hate missin’ Amelia Bedelia time.’ It kind of makes me want kids, you know? Do you think Vivian will want kids? I think I could talk her around. She’d be a wonderful mother. She—“  


“Charles, your fiancée is post-menopausal and wants to exile you to Ottawa. _Fuck._ Why didn’t Terry just drop us off? I’ve got car-neck, and my breath smells like…hm...pepperoncini and…butter? Eugh.”  


“He said—and I quote—“  


“Don’t quote. You sound ridiculous and I’m pretty sure that voice is offensive.”  


“Okaaay, he said he just vacuumed his car and that you wouldn’t have the money to pay for re-upholstering if you threw up. They make that butter, you know. Succulent, but a little acidic for my taste.”  


“I am gonna vomit. On you. I’m going to vomit on you, Charles. Unlock the doors.”  


“They’re not—“  


“God DAMMIT Charles. Eugh.” Jake opened the door and vomited into the street.  


He didn’t duck back into the car right away, after; the icy breeze added some good-tingly to the bad-tingly of his face, and anyway, he figured some more might come out, and Charles would get all snippy, and—  


_Oh shit._  


He ducked back in, slammed the door, and leaned forward. Suddenly, everything was urgent. “…Did Sarge say anything to you, in there, about…like…anything…”  


Charles grinned; “He di-id. Hmm. Hmhmhm. Don’t you worry, my friend. I won’t tell anyone. On Vivian’s grave. Oh! Oh, no. No, not that. On…I don’t know. On something else important. My dog’s grave? I once had a--”  


“Tell anyone and I’ll tell Rosa about that picture—“  


“Hey, hey, no need for threats! Your secret is safe with me, Jake. Scout’s honor. Though, you know, I never actually was a scout. Flat feet. Did you know they can disqualify you for that?”  


“Nobody. Tell _nobody._ Do you hear me?”  


“Loud and clear, brother. Loud and clear. Now, um, do you think you could drop me off at Vivi’s place on your way home? I promised her a massage, but now that I’ve been _naughty…_ ”  


“ _PLEASE NEVER SAY ANYTHING AGAIN._ Let’s go.”  


***  


Aaaand off they had gone. Charles had kept his word, and Jake— _stupid, stupid _—had forgotten it all. I mean, he hadn’t _forgotten__ —if you’d asked him, he’d have groaned and made idle, creative threats, just like any other dumbass—but it hadn’t been relevant, so he’d…back-burnered it. He’d been busy. There’d been cases.  
_

Now, there was one case. One case, undercover, with…with the person he hadn’t been able to look at, at the bar that night. With Rosa.  


_Fuck._


End file.
